


the only truth to me is you and i

by erzi



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: Immediately Post-Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 00:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: Of course Jean laughs, soft and short, when he looks up and sees just who is handing him his lighter, because who else could it be?"We really haven't changed, have we?" he muses.Nino's smile could mean anything. "I don't think we can."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i loved acca and the ending but my heart yearned for ninojean... so here's what my heart's decided happened post-series
> 
> EDIT 10/24/17: the acca ps finale is contradictory to some things i wrote here but i wrote this literally months before ono natsume wrapped up the story, so consider this an au extension of where the anime left off

Of course Jean laughs, soft and short, when he looks up and sees just who is handing him his lighter, because who else could it be?

"We really haven't changed, have we?" he muses.

Nino's smile could mean anything. "I don't think we can."

Jean takes back his lighter. "Aren't you going to grab a stool?" he asks, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he sets a spark to it. It's an invitation to stay, as always; a proof that his words weren't just words.

Nino nods, eyes crinkled. And there, his wordless response: _I'm here for good, you know._

"You already finished your beer," Nino notes when he's back and sitting by Jean.

Jean shrugs. "When you don't have anyone to talk to, all you can do is drink." He takes a lengthy drag of his cigarette.

"You are _surrounded_ by people," Nino says in amused disbelief.

"I don't know them."

"That right there is why you don't have any other friends." An attempted scold, but the laughter Nino is poorly holding back discredits it.

"Same to you," Jean retorts with a smirk.

A few seconds of companionable silence pass. Then they both try to speak at the same time.

"You go first," Nino cedes.

Jean changes the hand that holds his cigarette. "I was just wondering where you came from."

"Dowa. I'd already told you."

"No, no. Before you came here to the bar."

Nino rests his cheek on his hand. "Getting fired."

Jean's eyebrows go up.

"You know your lineage now, and can visit the King any time. There's no need for pictures."

Jean realizes Nino is missing his camera, and it is as unusual as going outside into the sun and casting no shadow. "So... what did you do with your camera?"

"Left it," he says, gaze downward, "with my dad."

 _He was at_ _a_ _cemetery_. Jean shifts in his seat. "Since he's buried here..." he starts, and trails off, unsure how to finish his sentence.

"Hmm?"

He purses his lips. "Could you, Lotta, and I visit his grave one day?"

Nino's arm falls on the table. "You'd want that?"

Jean taps the ash off his cigarette. "Yes. I know Lotta would, too."

There are no iron weights pressing down on Nino's back, and yet Jean can see something heavy lifted from him all the same. "When's your next day off?"

"Next Saturday. No school then, so she can come."

"Alright," Nino says, something sad and yet thankful in his eyes.

Another drag of the cigarette, the unspoken mark of a switch in the topic. "What was it that you were going to say earlier?"

Nino blinks, as if he's just woken from a dream. "I don't remember."

"Hmm, do you," Jean says, smiling.

"That's what happens when you're deep in conversation."

"Smooth, but I know you're as forgetful as I am, come on."

Nino chuckles.

Jean stubs out his cigarette. "Actually," he says, "I have another request." He meets Nino's eyes evenly. "Let's not have any more secrets between us. Just truth."

Nino straightens. "What, I can't keep at least one for mystery's sake?" he jokes, but it doesn't translate to his body language, the way his eyes shift.

Jean keeps looking at him.

"Sorry," Nino says, posture slackening. He drums his fingers on the table, thinking for what seems too long over such a simple, obvious thing.

 _What could he still be hiding?_ he wonders.

In the end, Nino sighs, deeply, and returns Jean's gaze. "Anything you want to know... I'll answer."

"Thank you," Jean says, relief cooling him down. "Right now, there's just one thing."

"What is it?" Nino asks, carefully.

"Your real name."

Nino is a little surprised. He tells him.

Jean mulls it over. "I like 'Nino' better," he decides.

"I do too," Nino says. "I've lived with this name far longer than I did without. It's more my real name than anything."

"Because it's who you are now. Who you've been, for a long time."

"Yeah," Nino agrees, after a small pause.

Jean looks between the empty table and Nino. "You're not going to drink anything?"

"I came here on my bike, so that'd be bad-" He snaps his fingers. "I remembered what I was going to say. I was going to ask if you wanted another drink."

"What do you need me drunk for now? It can't be information anymore."

He grins. "Humor."

Jean's seat scrapes loudly as he gets up. "We should be going," he says, and it takes him a second to realize he's said 'we.' He isn't sure what he wants to do next, but even subconsciously, Nino is included in it.

"You're alright with riding a bike?" Nino says, with a smile that lets Jean know Nino didn't miss exactly what he said, either.

"I trust you."

Nino's smile softens. "Where to, then?"

"Anywhere."

Jean pays his tab, and they go to where Nino's parked. He hands Jean a helmet.

"Since when do you have an extra?"

"Since today."

 _Am I that predictable?_ Jean thinks fondly.

Nino instructs him how to sit, where to put his feet and hands, what he needs to do as a passenger, how he should communicate. "Got it?"

"I think so."

Nino puts on his helmet, and helps Jean with adjusting his own. Then he slides on top of the bike, Jean copying him. He wraps his arms around Nino, wondering what it is about motorcycles Nino likes so much.

When it revs, the engine rumbling like a tiger, and they speed off, wind whipping, he has an idea.


	2. Chapter 2

The doorbell buzzes harshly. Jean, fixing his tie in front of his bedroom mirror, asks Lotta to answer.

She doesn't say anything to the person at the door. She doesn't need to.

Jean hears the person step inside, the door close. He glances at his reflection one last time before going to the living room to meet Nino, whose wandering eyes settle on him. Nino smiles thinly.

"Seeing you wearing black that isn't your ACCA uniform is a little odd," he says.

Jean looks down at his outfit as if seeing it for the first time, and then back up at Nino. He is also all in black, but it isn't strange on him. Blue and black, those are his colors.

"I'm ready," Jean says. He turns to Lotta, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"Me too," she says, quietly, smoothing down her black dress.

Nino nods. "Let's go, then."

When the three of them get together, they never lack for conversation. But none of them talk now. It isn't an uncomfortable silence, though. It's a solemn one. As they walk, Jean eyes Lotta, her usual smile replaced by pensive demureness. He turns his head, to look at Nino. But as he walks in front of them, all he sees is the back of his head. He wishes he could see his expression.

A little off in the distance, Jean spots a shop with pots outside, blooming with flowers. "Just a moment," he says when they're closer to it, and goes inside.

"I'm here to pick up my order," Jean tells the shopkeeper. "It should be under 'Otus.'"

"Oh, yes," she says, "I'll be right back." She disappears into the back of the store, and returns with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas. She rings him up, he pays, and heads out. Nino looks at him. Then at the flowers. His expression softens.

"Lead on," Jean tells him, giving him a small smile.

Nino clears his throat. "Right."

They go to the station, the rumbles and metallic clanks of the subway filling in the silence. Their stop comes ten minutes later. They get off, and walk for another ten minutes, when the brooding steel arches at the entrance of the cemetery come into view.

The soil beneath the grass is soft, and Jean notices they leave the ghosts of their footprints behind, briefly, before the grass retakes it shape. As they walk, he looks around. There aren't many others here. Not living people, at least; the stone slabs stretch on and on.

Nino comes to a stop. He steps a little to the side so Lotta and Jean can stand before the grave. And there is the camera. Jean doesn't miss Nino's eyes flitting between it and the grave.

"Look who I've brought, Dad," Nino says.

"Hello," Lotta says.

Jean bends, setting the flowers down. "We're sorry we've come so late." 

"That you're here at all is what would have mattered to him," Nino says, placing a photograph next to the flowers. In it, smiles frozen in time, are the three of them at the Otus' apartment. Jean's heart warms, because while the photograph could truthfully depict any day Nino was over, he remembers exactly what day that had been taken. It's a good picture, capturing the essence of the three of them, the best thing Nino could have chosen to bring.

"Do either of you want to say anything?" Nino asks.

Jean takes a step forward. "I wish we could have met," he says. "Your son – Nino to us, always – has done a lot for us. I know you did too, in your own way. I wish I could have thanked you in person for looking out for us, and for bringing Nino into our lives." He steals a quick glance at Nino. "He said I was useless without him, and though he was joking, I think he was right. I don't know where I would be without him. He's always been there for us, whether we knew it or not." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "My biggest regret is not having been there for _him_ when he lost you. His role then prevented me from knowing, that I understand, but I still wish I'd been there. He's risked his life for me, and I'd do the same for him. He's family... you would have been, too."

He steps back, absently wondering where this speech came from. He turns his head, expecting Nino's half-smile, and finding him tight-lipped, a rawness in his eyes unlike anything Jean had ever seen on Nino. And then Nino casts his face aside, head tilted to the sky.

"That was lovely," Lotta sniffles, taking Jean's attention. "I don't think I have anything to add..."

"That's alright," Nino says to the clouds.

Lotta reaches inside her small purse for something. She pulls out a loaf of bread, wrapped in a pretty napkin. "I did bring this," she says, setting it down beside the other gifts. "I baked it. I like to bake, just like Mom did." She wipes at her eye. "I think you would have liked it."

Jean is about to place a comforting hand on her shoulder when Lotta darts away to Nino, throwing her arms around him. Nino is as surprised as Jean; he whips his head around, wide-eyed.

"You were hurting and we didn't even know it," Lotta says, miserable. "It must have been so lonely!"

Nino hugs her back. "I wasn't lonely. I had you two."

 _But it did hurt_ , Jean thinks, when Nino leaves that out.

Lotta breaks the hug, a sad smile on her face.

Nino looks between the siblings. "Dad wouldn't want us to spend the rest of the day in grief," he says. "How about we honor his memory and eat at his old favorite place?" His eyes fall on the grave. "I can tell you all about him."

"I think that sounds really nice," Jean says.

"I do too," Lotta says.

"Great." Nino smiles, genuinely, and all is right with the world again. "They serve Dowa food, so I think you'll like it."

With each step away from the cemetery, the pain is gradually lifted from their shoulders.

At the restaurant, they refind their rhythm. Nino shares stories years old, and makes them seem as vivid as spring. Lotta, chipper, presses for more, wanting to know every last detail. And Jean listens, silent but attentive. He begins to form an image of Nino's father: similar to present Nino, but with a thinner frame, and deeper lines in his forehead, that same seemingly unapproachable face belied by a kindness in his smile.

The warmth Nino radiates now, in his voice and smile, is nothing like the coolly quiet impression he gives those who don't know him.

Jean puts his chin on his hand. _And I'm glad I got to know him_ , he thinks. He closes his eyes, seeing Nino's father in his imagination.

 _Thank you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blue hydrangeas are for ["heartfelt emotions" and "gratitude"](http://www.flowermeaning.com/hydrangea-flower-meaning/)


	3. Chapter 3

Jean is forgetful, but his mind constantly replays Nino's distracted glances toward his old camera at the cemetery. He can't forget, will not forget. Nino's photography may have started as a duty, but it had ended as a passion. It had become part of him, and telling himself otherwise, he had abandoned it. Jean can understand leaving behind the camera – it was Nino, free, returning the him he no longer had to be – but not photography itself.

So Jean searches for a new camera to give him. Knowing nothing of photography, it's a little frustrating. Too many features. Words he doesn't know.

Three days of searching later, he knows what to do.

On his lunch break at work, he texts Nino, eyes darting from the street to the phone as he walks.

_Are you home right now?_

The reply is quick:

_Yes. What are you planning?_

Jean chuckles.

_Stay home; I'll be there soon. We're going somewhere._

 

_How vague. I'll be waiting._

He puts his phone in his pocket, his feet knowing the way to Nino's apartment on their own.

Nino answers his door at the fourth knock. "What are you dragging me into now?" he asks with an easy smile.

"It's a secret." Jean holds up a blindfold. "So put this on."

Nino's eyebrows crease in confusion. "Alright," he says, slowly, taking the blindfold from Jean. He ties it quickly. "Am I expected to walk like this?" 

"I'll lead you," Jean says, taking Nino by the hand, and quickly making his way out of the apartment complex, Nino stumbling behind.

"Slow down, Jean!" Nino laughs, nervous.

"We don't have a lot of time," Jean explains. "I'm on my break right now, and I still need to eat."

"This couldn't have waited until after you were out of work?"

"No," Jean says immediately, as certain as the sun shining down on them. He shifts his hand on Nino's to a more comfortable hold, the skin between them warming, despite not being under the sun long.

They cross and turn streets to many amused onlookers. To throw off Nino, Jean takes the long way to their destination.

"We're here," he says, dropping his hold on Nino. "You can take off the blindfold."

Nino reaches behind his head. "I'm going to guess this is a new restaur-" His next words fall with the blindfold. He looks from the store – a camera store – to Jean.

"I wanted to buy you a camera," Jean says, sheepish, "but I couldn't pick one. I tried reading up as much as I could, and ended up deciding to let you choose."

"Jean, you don't-"

"Come on, before we get older standing out here." He loosely grabs Nino's hand again, pulling him inside.

"I don't want to do photography anymore, Jean."

Jean meets Nino's eyes. "You don't believe that."

Nino turns his head to the side, silent.

"You don't have to convince yourself of it," Jean continues, walking slowly. "This may have been your past, but it's your present, too. The new you is allowed to do what he likes, and Nino, you like photography." He stops in front of a display with a camera he recognizes from his searching. He gently lets go of Nino and just as lightly puts the camera in his hands. "You wouldn't be taking pictures for someone else. They'd be pictures for you."

Nino looks down at the camera, want dark in his eyes. "For me," he repeats.

And the spell breaks.

"This is too much to ask of you," he says to Jean, putting the camera back.

For the third time today, Jean's hand is on Nino's. "You didn't ask me," Jean says, stern. "I'm doing this because I want to. You understand that sentiment better than anyone."

Nino's chest compresses with a sharp intake of breath. He holds it for one second. Two seconds. "Thank you, Jean," he whispers, closed-eyed, sliding out his hand.

Jean welcomes the smile the sincerity in Nino's voice brings him.

"Did I guess right with this camera?" he asks.

"You definitely did your research," Nino says. "It was a good pick; a lot of professionals like this one. It's too clunky for me, though." He tells Jean all about what he prefers in his equipment. Jean pays attention, telling himself to remember, to learn this.

Nino finds what he wants quickly. It is a newer model of his old camera.

 _Of course_ , Jean thinks, feeling affection just at the sight of it.

Upon payment, Jean is ready to dismiss Nino's last-minute protests written in his set mouth and subtle fidgeting, but Nino says nothing. When the transaction is complete, and Jean hands the box to Nino, all traces of his hesitance are gone, replaced by a bright wonder.

"You are something else, Jean Otus," Nino says, back outside. He has already opened the box, and is changing the settings on the camera.

"Mmm. What'll be your first photograph?"

"The only thing it can be."

The smile Jean offers for the picture of the two of them isn't just a pose.

Nino looks over it as Jean fiddles inside his jacket for a cigarette. "There isn't a single bad photograph of you out there," Nino mutters, more to himself.

"Flatterer," Jean says with a smile.

Nino laughs. The camera is safe inside the box again, and he cradles it under one arm, the other swinging free.

Jean's hand feels empty. He takes a drag from his cigarette, hoping the swirl of nicotine quiets the sensation.


	4. Chapter 4

Another day, another promise of after-work drinks.

Except that Nino isn't here.

Jean checks his texts, despite no more than a minute having passed since he last did. There sits, without a reply, his message to Nino, telling him he'd be at the bar soon, because Nino is always there before him, waiting with a drink half-gone.

 _Just not today_ , Jean thinks, finger squeaking on his beer glass, leaving trails of condensation. It has only been ten minutes past their meet-up time. _Something outside of his control must have happened_ , he tells himself. He crosses his arms on the table and lays his head down. _But why hasn't he replied?_

Fifteen minutes later, Jean remains alone.

Then twenty minutes, where he pushes the drink away from him. Twenty-five, and he asks Lotta if she's seen him or talked to him (she hasn't). Thirty; how he wishes the clock were lying. Thirty-five.

At the forty minute mark, he pays for his now-warm beer, barely sipped. He is walking out the door, distracted by hazily planning where to search for Nino, when he bumps into someone.

"You were leaving?" they say, in a voice like raw honey poured over well-toasted bread, and Jean shoots his head up.

"Nino! I thought-" Jean cuts himself off, because he doesn't really know _what_ he thought.

Nino lightly places his hand on the small of Jean's back, leading him back inside. "I'm really sorry," he says. "Things got kind of hectic. Where were you sitting?"

"Right there." Jean motions with his head. He takes a seat again, Nino across from him.

"I was riding my motorcycle and she died on me," Nino continues. "My guess is this humidity got to the ignition coils. I was about twenty minutes away from my apartment, and I had to walk her and me to the repair shop I prefer, and then home. That took a while." He chuckles dryly. "I was so tired I fell asleep. When I woke up, I realized I was late to meet you, and was going to tell you. And you won't believe it, but my phone's dead, too. I thought I charged it last night. Apparently not." He leans back on the plush seat. "So I walked here as fast as I could without looking too idiotic."

 _What am I going to do with you?_ Jean thinks, resting his cheek on his palm. "And you're not tired anymore?"

"Not as much. The nap helped."

"We don't _have_ to drink. If you want to go back home and sleep more, that's okay. We can meet up another time."

"After all I went through," Nino says with a smirk, "I think I deserve some alcohol. What do you want? I'll pay."

"As meager thanks for keeping me waiting?" Jean teases.

"Maybe."

"Whatever you're having."

Nino's smirk turns more mischievous, and then he leaves. He returns with two squat glasses of whiskey, neat.

"I knew that smirk meant nothing good," Jean mutters, taking his glass.

"This weather called for something cold, and all my troubles today called for hard liquor." Nino takes a casual drink, like it's water. Jean's own sip brings tears to his eyes and fire to his throat.

"I think you only got this to get me drunk."

Behind his glass, Nino's smile is noncommittal.

They talk, of nothing and everything, as always. Other patrons leave, replaced by new strangers. The sun sets, replaced by the moon. Everything changes and yet stays the same.

"We should probably be going," Nino says, drink long empty.

"Just let me finish this," Jean says. He's been holding his glass for two minutes, willing himself to down the last of the whiskey.

"Okay," Nino says, in a light tone that means he's not convinced Jean can do it.

 _I can hold my own, too_. He grips the glass, inhales sharply, and brings the drink up, swallowing it all with a grimace.

Nino's eyebrows go up in surprise, but Jean's smug moment is short. He starts coughing as soon as he opens his mouth to let air in.

They stand, and Nino rubs small circles on his back. "You know you don't need to show off."

Jean pouts. "When do I get your kind of alcohol tolerance?"

Nino holds the door open for Jean, and they exit the bar. "Never."

The air feels thick and wet, the way it does before a storm. Large clouds obscure the stars and flit in front of the moon, now bright, now in shadow.

"Are we walking or taking the subway?" Jean asks, looking down from the sky at Nino. His head rushes, from the sudden drop, and the whiskey's buzz. "I feel like it might rain..."

"Walking is fine, isn't it? Only five minutes or so."

"To my apartment. Then yours is another five-minute walk."

"I'll take my chanc-"

A drop of water hits Nino's cheek. Another lands ahead on the pavement, and another, and another yet, and now it rains.

"You were saying?"

Nino laughs, and it would have been drowned out by the rumble of thunder if Jean's ears hadn't know exactly what to listen for. "How about we make a run for it?"

Jean grins and takes off. The shallow splashes Nino makes come a second later.

The raindrops are warm and fat and steady. It doesn't feel that bad, really. A little laugh bubbles out of Jean, brought on from the absurdity of the situation and the alcohol.

It doesn't take them long to reach the Otus' building.

"I feel bad for leaving puddles in the elevator," Nino says, waiting for Jean to unlock the door to the apartment.

Jean shrugs. "It can't be helped in this weather." The door clicks open, and they step inside, Jean turning on a few lights. "Lotta should be asleep, so don't make a lot of noise."

Nino smiles. "I'll be like a shadow."

He stays in the living room as Jean heads into the bathroom and grabs two towels. He goes back and gives one to Nino.

"I'll bring you a change of clothes," Jean says. He smiles. "Don't worry about leaving puddles here. This is your second home, anyway."

He turns around, to his room now. His frame is different than Nino's, and he's not actually sure anything of his will fit him, but he searches. He finds a plain white shirt he didn't realize he had. On him, it'd be wide, but it should be fine on Nino. At the bottom of a drawer are some sweatpants; he grabs them.

 _Nino is going to wear my clothing_ , he realizes, heat rising to his face. He shakes his head, as if that will make the heat disappear.

He walks back and rounds the corner. "Here-"

Nino's shirtless back is to him as he dries his hair. And there, on such pale skin, two near-circular pink scars.

"I'd never seen them before," Jean mumbles, unaware he has said it out loud until Nino turns, a question on his face that quickly settles.

"You hadn't," he says, simply.

Jean purses his lips. "Do they bother you?"

"If you mean pain, no. If you mean their appearance-" A soft exhale. "-it's also no."

Jean should be relieved. But there's still a tension in his limbs. He walks to him, leaving the change of clothes on the sofa. He remains still as he considers what to say next, how to say it.

"Can I-?" He stops, regretting speaking.

Nino silently shifts. An incomplete question whose end he knew.

Tentatively, Jean presses a finger to a scar. It feels a little wrinkled. Raw. He can cover it completely with the pad of his finger. So small, that bullet, and yet so merciless.

 _It could have ended differently_ , Jean thinks, his stomach dropping.

Light as breath, he trails his finger to the second scar. Nino shivers.

One bullet must feel like braving hellfire into a single, concentrated point. But two...

Jean leans his forehead against Nino's back, which tenses. He hadn't quite finished drying off; his skin is a little clammy from where the rain soaked through his shirt. It's warm, too, but comfortably so, as it's the warmth from himself and from Jean. And up close, despite the pervasive dampness, Jean can pick out the subtle smells that make up Nino – the cleanliness from shampoo; the spiciness of aftershave; the rich chocolatiness that clings to him. It's dizzying.

"I don't know what I'd be without you," he mumbles.

"Hungry, because you'd forget to buy groceries," Nino says, trying to joke, but his lightness sounds forced.

Jean chuckles dryly. He straightens up and looks to the window. "I doubt the rain will let up, so stay here the night." He stands. "Normally you'd have the spare room, but we haven't cleaned it in a while, so the couch will have to do. I'll get you a pillow and blankets."

Nino half-turns, and he is bathed partly in light, partly in darkness. His lips briefly quirk upward in silent thanks.

"You can go to the bathroom to change." Jean motions to the change of clothes he brought. "You can give me your clothes after and I'll put them in the dryer."

"Will do," Nino says, grabbing the clothes as he gets up. He walks away, that distinctive clean-spicy-rich scent trailing after him.

Jean lingers a moment, mind blanking. _What was I- oh, the_ _blankets_ _._ He gets them, and makes the sofa as bed-like as possible.

He hears a door open and turns around. His eyes travel up Nino. _He should not look that good in pajamas_ , he thinks. The tips of his ears are hot.

Nino hands him his wet clothes, folded as best as he could, and lays the towel he used on top. "Thanks," he says, smiling. "You're spoiling me here."

"I wouldn't treat you any other way," Jean says, and heads to the laundry room before he can think any further on what's slipped from his drunken mouth. He watches the clothes spin about, the cloth rippling this way and that, changing and yet staying the same.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Jean frowns at the temperature the thermometer reads. "I'm staying home, Lotta."

Lotta sinks into her bed, blinking heavily. "But you have to go to work."

"You're sick. The chairman will understand if I don't go."

"I can manage by myse-!" She breaks into a cough.

"Be right back," he says.

He goes to the kitchen, finds a basin, fills it with cold water, and takes a washcloth from the bathroom. Back in Lotta's room, he dampens the cloth and presses it to her forehead. She shivers.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"A little."

"You eat soup when you have the flu, so I guess I should make-"

Lotta sits up, cutting him off with a protest. Loudly, for someone who's sick. "Nooo! Actually, I'm not hungry!"

He frowns again. "You just don't want me to cook, do you?"

"Um..."

He pats her head. "You can just say so. I know I'm not the best in the kitchen, but I thought I could manage soup."

"You really couldn't."

 _Maybe I should call Nino_ , he muses, because when something is beyond his means, Nino is who he seeks. _No,_ _I can do this. It's not the first time she's gotten sick._

Lotta coughs again. She lies back down. "Ugh. Please call Nino."

 _Well_. He smiles. "Okay."

He steps outside the room and dials the only number, besides Lotta's and his own, that he's bothered to memorize. Hardly one ring passes when Nino picks up.

"Hey," he says, warm even over the line.

"Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all. Is something up?"

Jean explains.

"I'll be there." The sound of something shuffling, and then a pause. "All you guys eat is carbohydrates. Do you even have ingredients for soup? A chicken vegetable soup. That would be best."

"We have...." Jean tries to picture the inside of their fridge. "There's chicken in the freezer. For vegetables, there's... potatoes? Carrots? Some other stuff, too."

"Any herbs or spices?"

He concentrates. "Pepper. Does salt count?"

"That's just sad." Jean can hear the grin in Nino's voice, mirrored in his own.

"I know, but out of the two of us, you're the cook."

"Mmm." More shuffling sounds, the jangle of keys. "I'll bring some of my own stuff and make a quick stop to the grocery store. So I'll take a bit longer than normal to get there."

"That's okay." Jean shifts his phone into the other ear. "Thank you for even coming."

"I don't think I could say no to you," Nino says.

The static of nothingness floods Jean's ears.

"You don't work for the royal family anymore," he says, because surely that's what Nino meant.

He clumsily breathes out, hears Nino slowly breathe in.

"See you."

"Later."

They hang up, and although Jean is happy to have him over, something he can't place worries at the bottom of his stomach. He opts to ignore it.

"He'll be here after some grocery shopping," he tells Lotta, sticking his head in from outside the door. "Our pantry is too pitiful to him."

She giggles.

Jean is in the middle of making tea for Lotta when he hears the door buzz. He pours the last of the boiling water carefully, and is quickly at the door, opening it for Nino.

"You already gave her medicine, right?" Nino asks, stepping inside, hauling a heavy-looking backpack with one hand. He puts it on the dining room table and unpacks groceries.

"Yes. I put a cold towel on her head, too. Changed it when it got warm. I was about to give her tea."

"Not entirely useless on your own, then, are you." He tosses a plastic bottle at Jean; he catches it, but not without some fumbling.

Jean reads the label. "Strawberry lemonade?" A smile tinges his question.

"I brought Lotta some. Vitamin C and all."

"Oh," Jean says.

Nino grins. "But that bottle is for you. I'll put Lotta's in the fridge."

Jean clutches his drink, watching him fondly. It was the little things.

"I'm guessing she's in her room?" Nino asks as he shuts the fridge and turns.

"Yes. You can go see her." He pauses. "On second thought, don't. You'll get sick."

Nino shrugs, going on ahead.

The little things indeed.

Jean walks after him.

"Not too much," he hears Lotta answer to whatever Nino, crouched by her, had asked.

"You still need to eat something. Anything sound appetizing? If not, I'll wing it."

Her eyes get bright. "Yeah, wing it! I haven't had your cooking in a while."

Nino smiles. "As you say. Lunch will definitely be a soup, by the way; you don't get to pick."

"That's fine." She coughs. "As long as Jean doesn't make it."

"I'm right here, Lotta," Jean says, eyebrows knit.

"I know."

Nino laughs and stands. "I'll go make something. If you need anything, don't yell for us, or even get up. Text us and we'll get whatever for you. You need to talk as little as possible and rest."

She gives a thumbs up, and the two return to the kitchen.

Jean stills when the kettle and cups are in view again. "I forgot about the tea."

"What else is new? Fine, fine, my memory sucks too," Nino adds, seeing the argument on Jean's face. He opens the fridge and peers inside.

Jean steps around him to put the cold cup of tea in the microwave. "So what are you going to make?"

"Omelet, probably, for the protein. Plus I can put healthy stuff in the inside. What, though... I see tomatoes, red peppers, onions- there's the cheese. Yeah, an omelet. Not a culinary masterpiece, but it'll do." He pokes his head out. "Have _you_ eaten anything yet?"

"No," Jean says, trying not to smile at what he's certain Nino will say next.

"I'll cook for you, too."

The microwave beeps at him and he takes out the steaming cup, feeling as though he's drunk from it. "No peppers on mine, please."

"What's that? _Extra_ peppers? Why, sure."

Jean rolls his eyes goodnaturedly as he walks to Lotta's room to give her the tea. Since he forgot about it, it's steeped just a bit longer than Lotta likes, but she takes it anyway.

"Did you call the chairman?" she asks, after a small sip.

Jean's mouth makes a small 'o.'

Lotta sighs, ever-suffering.

"I'm on it," he says, stepping out again.

Owl picks up fast. "Hello, Jean. Has something happened that's made you so late?"

"I can't go today. Lotta's sick with the flu."

"Oh, that's awful," Owl says, and it sounds like he actually means it rather than it being the appropriate social response. "Will you be alright alone?"

"I will be, because I'm not alone. I called my friend over to help."

A second's worth of silence. "I see."

 _Is that amusement I hear?_ Jean thinks, confused.

"I send Lotta only good wishes," Owl continues. "I hope she gets better soon."

"Thank you, I'll tell her."

After their goodbyes, Jean goes to see what Nino's up to, the smell of food frying making his stomach growl. He sits nearby, watching Nino in his element. His actions are hypnotic in their repetition: whisking, beating, dicing. In the background, the stove steadily sizzles, almost but not quite masking Nino's humming.

Jean doesn't even notice Nino has finished until he waves a plate in front of him.

"Already?" he says, blinking deeply, eyes dry.

"You spaced out," Nino says, smiling. "Come on, let's eat with Lotta."

The three of them having a meal like this cramped in Lotta's room is weirdly... nice, Jean reflects. _No, 'nice' isn't_ _it_. He chews his food slowly, trying to think of the word. But he can't, and leaves the thought be.

It's when he's helping Nino with the dishes that it hits him. _Domestic_. He pauses and takes in the scene: him, hands soapy; Nino, drying cutlery and sorting it. Nino didn't even have to be here. He wanted to, and so he was.

They keep Lotta company by watching television together and playing board and card games. Jean's pretty sure Nino lets them win on purpose. When Lotta calls Nino out on being suspiciously terrible, and Nino laughs, Jean feels a surge of affection. A sense of rightness, like this is where he belongs.

The feeling only increases when it's time to prepare lunch. Nino gives Jean permission to help ("I won't tell Lotta," he promised with a wink that would have been obnoxious on anyone but him), and so as Jean chops carrots, he thinks this is what every day should be like.

"It smells really good," he says, as Nino adds garlic powder.

"Having a decent pantry will get you far. I'm thinking you can keep what I brought. You did not even have basil, and you can't get more basic than that."

He crosses his arms, glancing sidelong. "I eat out a lot..."

"Don't I know it." He takes a spoonful of the soup and offers it to Jean. "What do you think?"

He lightly blows on it before sipping it. "Tastes as good as it smells."

"Ready for serving, then."

"Not before we make toast to accompany it," Jean says, moving to get the bread. "Who's forgetful now?"

Nino chuckles.

They eat with Lotta again. She gratefully takes the food, savoring the soup. "So filling," she sighs. She takes another eager slurp. "Nino, can you just stay here forever? I mean, you're over all the time anyway, you might as well."

Jean's eyes widen, spoon halfway to his mouth. He turns to Nino.

From Nino's face, Lotta might as well have asked him to jump out of the window.

Lotta waggles her spoon. "Don't give me that look, Nino! It makes sense!" She looks at Jean. "You agree, don't you, Jean?"

He sets his spoon down, thinking of scenes in a life where Nino lives with them. He sees Nino helping Lotta out in the kitchen; he and Nino laughing as they share a drink at home; Nino, just out of bed, walking in the hallway. "It makes perfect sense. Our place should be yours, too."

"We'll tidy up our guest room, and it'll be your room!"

"If you want," Jean adds.

Nino sets his mouth into a thin line and closes his eyes. Only briefly. When he opens his eyes, it's accompanied by an earnest smile. "I'd... really like that."

Lotta claps her hands in glee, and Jean feels warmth pulse out from his heart.

"But," Nino says, and both of the Otus' siblings faces fall, "the lease on my apartment isn't up yet, not for two more months."

"Then you'll move in with us?" Lotta asks, hopeful.

"I will."

Lotta gets so excited talking about what will come next – the packing, the moving, the unpacking – that she gets woozy. Nino makes her lie down and takes away her food as Jean puts a fresh, cold towel on her head.

"I'm not even tired," she insists, but her eyes grow heavy.

"Try to sleep some, anyhow," Nino says.

She murmurs sleepily.

Jean draws the blinds and turns off the lights in her room. They exit, Nino first, and Jean closes the door carefully. His hand is on the doorknob a fraction longer than needed, feeling Nino's gaze on him.

"I take back what I said earlier," Jean says, turning around.

"Hmm?"

His voice softens. "Our place is already yours."

Nino doesn't reply, but from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the way he cups his chin to hide his mouth, Jean knows he's smiling.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Five minutes before their scheduled lunch, Jean walks into the diner, the bell above the door jingling.

"Hi! What can I get for you?" a waitress says, walking up to him and setting the menu on the table.

"Nothing yet," he says, "I'm waiting for someone."

"Just wave me over when they're here, then!"

"Yes, thank you."

She leaves. He turns his head toward the window, content in watching the people pass by. Across the street is a snug café. A girl in a large, stylish hat walks in, and when she opens the door, Jean glimpses a familiar head, sitting in a corner.

He brings out his phone and calls Nino.

"Nino," Jean says slowly, "where are you?"

"In the café we agreed to meet at, where else? Where are _you_?"

A beat of silence.

"At the _diner_ we agreed to meet at," Jean says.

And another.

"It was definitely a café."

"That was it at first, but then you said you could go for a milkshake, so then we said the diner."

"But _you_ said you wanted the shortcake this café has. We changed it back."

"Are you sure?"

"Honestly, not anymore."

Jean makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. "We really need to write this stuff down. I'll be right over."

He tries not to draw much attention to himself as he leaves the diner and crosses the street for the other eating establishment.

"At least we got that cleared up fast," Nino says as Jean takes the seat in front of him.

They catch the attention of a waiter they know and order. He brings them their drinks promptly, but says the food will be a while.

Jean unwraps a straw and sticks it in his orange juice. "We eat out too much."

Behind his drink, Nino hums in agreement.

"Once you move in, though," Jean says, aimlessly twirling the straw in the glass, "eating at home will be more fun." He smiles. "Just one more month."

Nino puts his drink down, guilt creasing his face, and Jean's insides anxiously churn.

"I can't move in with you yet," he says. "I still work for ACCA, and there's something I'm needed for elsewhere."

"Where are you going?"

"Can't say."

"How long are you going to be gone?"

"At most three months."

His heart at his ears drowns out the din of the café. His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels too large for his mouth. He stares at the table without seeing.

"Jean?" Nino says, distantly.

 _Three months.._. Nino has been close by for years. There had been occasions where they hadn't seen each other, but never for _month_ _s._

"Is there anything I can know?" he asks, feeling like the questions he has would receive non-answers.

Nino ticks off on his fingers as he speaks. "I was only told about this yesterday; I didn't put off telling you. I'm not sure if I'll be able to talk to you while I'm gone. And my flight leaves tomorrow at ten in the morning."

His stomach falls. _I'm at work then_ _;_ _I can't even_ _see_ _him_ _off_. "This why you were insistent on meeting today, isn't it."

Nino's mouth quirks upward humorlessly.

By the time they get their food, Jean isn't that hungry. Nino, too, mostly picks at his food.

"It's possible I get back earlier," Nino suddenly says. "If all goes well."

"Does that happen often?"

"Not as often as I'd like."

They lapse into silence again, and this one, for the first time in all the years Jean has known Nino, is the kind that makes focusing on anything but the silence difficult. The worst thing is Jean wants to talk. He just has nothing to say.

He considers suggesting they go to a bar next, the alcohol likely to loosen them up, and some semblance of closure had before Nino's departure. But the thought of getting drunk right now leaves him queasy.

Neither of them get dessert, and they avoid looking at each other up until they leave. A few steps from the entrance, Jean stops, Nino following suit.

His hands delve deeper into his pockets. _This isn't how it should end_. He turns to Nino. "Do you want to walk around some? Take in as much of Badon as you can before you go?"

"Sure," Nino says, his shoulders relaxing the slightest. "Who knows, three months from now, everything could be different. Red means 'go' and green means 'stop.' All people who cannot handle their liquor have to pay an extra alcohol tax."

Jean feels a hint of a smile. 

The sidewalks that vein the city are familiar and comfortable. Here, at this corner, one of their most frequented bars. There, another bar they like. And another.

"Is there a bar we haven't been to?" Jean wonders out loud.

Nino smirks. "Probably not."

The bakeries, too. They don't go inside any of them, but Nino looks at them fondly. And they pass places firmly set in their past: the old record store that got much of their business in high school, the old high school itself, the park Lotta liked as a child (and even now). All of their life in food and glass and concrete and trees.

Despite their lengthy walk, and that they take the long way to Jean's building, the sun is still up when they arrive. It feels too early to part already, but Jean's mind blanks trying to think of a reason to stay around Nino for a few hours more. They stand under the awning, eyes on anything but each other.

"So," Nino says. "I should probably go to my place and pack for the trip."

An offer to help is at the tip of Jean's tongue, but he swallows it down, knowing that with the level of secrecy around this, he wouldn't be allowed. "Okay," he says instead, suddenly very aware of his arms by his sides.

Nino is as unsure of what to do as Jean is. He takes a small step forward, momentarily lingering, and then lightly pats Jean's shoulder. "Later, Jean," he says, walking away.

Just like that, he's gone.

 _That can't be it_ , Jean thinks, shoulder pulsing. But it is.

"Jean, hello!" One of his tenants waves at him, having just rounded the corner. "Are you waiting for someone, or are you coming in?"

He glances in the direction Nino left in. "After you," he says. 

* * *

"You didn't sleep well, did you?" Lotta asks, putting a plate of buttered toast and sunny-side up eggs in front of Jean.

"What makes you say that?"

"The bags under your eyes."

Without thinking, he reaches up and touches under his left eye. It's puffy. "Oh." The news anchor on the TV gets in half a word before Jean speaks again. "Nino's going to be gone for three months."

Lotta's fork clatters. "What! Why?! Where is he going? When does he leave, and can we see him beforehand?"

"Some job. He couldn't say where to; Internal Affairs is pretty secret. And he leaves," he squints at the clock on the TV screen, "in an hour."

She pouts. "I don't like this."

He pokes at the yolk of an egg. "Me either."

"When he gets back, we're throwing him a welcome-home party, okay? It can also be a welcome-to-our-apartment party, because I'm still going to make him move in here."

"I look forward to that," he says, smiling a little.

He's asked why he seems tired at work, too, and simply says he couldn't sleep. No one bothers him further, although Owl does cast a concerned look his way occasionally. At 9:57 am, he begins typing a message for Nino, and watches the clock tick until it's exactly 10:00 to send: 

 _Have a good flight. If you can, at least tell me when you've landed._  

He tells himself not to expect a reply, but when his phone buzzes seconds later, he darts for it. But it's Lotta, reminding him to send Nino a brief message before it's too late.

Thus the hours drag on, made worse by the lack of things to do that day. His lonely lunch is no better.

He gets home drained despite having done little. Lotta takes his briefcase, smiling sympathetically.

"One day down," she says.

 _A lot more to go_ , he thinks.

He's in his bed reading before going to sleep when his phone buzzes, and he lets his hopes up again. They aren't for nothing this time. 

 _Arrived safely some hours back. Hope you're well._  

So short, but Jean will take it. This means they'll have some communication, however sporadic. He's in the middle of typing out his reply when he gets another text: 

 _Try to talk to other people. You might even make a whole other friend._  

He can't help the smile. He finishes typing: 

 _Good to know, and likewise. On both accounts._  

He sleeps a little better that day _._

* * *

Jean receives nothing from Nino for a week. Neither does Lotta.

 _This is how it was going to be_ , he reminds himself, but he still checks his messages every so often. 

* * *

Two weeks of silence.

Jean asks Knot to go out drinking, but he has to take one of his kids to a playdate. He doesn't want to ask the girls because four people out drinking together is too many, and Owl seems too refined to go out and get drunk with his subordinate.

He just goes straight home. 

* * *

 _This can't be homesickness_ , he thinks. _I'm still in Badon_.

He doesn't come up with a name for the lead blocking his breathing, the hollowness of his stomach, the listlessness of the days.

The feeling persists.

* * *

Not quite one month later, he gets a box. It has no return address. He opens it anyway, and finds a bottle of an alcoholic drink from Furawau with a note attached in a handwriting he instantly recognizes. 

 _Save some for me._  

His chest lightens.

Three days after, Nino asks him how the drink was. Jean tells him he'll find out when Nino's back, and though that earns him only an ' _Alright_ ,' Jean is sure it was sent with a smile. 

* * *

Exactly one month to the date Nino left, Jean runs into Rail at a donut shop. They snack together, amicably enough, but the chocolate donut Rail is eating keeps distracting Jean. Rail praises the taste of his donut. Jean's seems to have no flavor at all. 

* * *

 "I miss Nino," Lotta sighs one morning.

And there it is, like light parting through the clouds.

"Yeah," he says, and though at least he knows what to call this soreness, it is not lessened. 

* * *

A Sunday. He has no work that day, and Lotta no school, so she goes to visit the King. He can tell she wants him to accompany her, but she doesn't say anything when he wordlessly stays behind.

A craving for tobacco rather than lunch brings him to the balcony. The days are beginning to cool, and with the wind strong so high up, a blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. He taps the ashes off his cigarette and hears an annoyed caw.

Surprised, he looks down, and gives a short laugh.

A crow pecks at the ground, displeased what Jean has given him isn't edible.

"Sorry," Jean tells it.

The crow tilts its head, beady eyes unblinking.

"I don't have any food on me," Jean says. "You'll have to fly somewhere else."

The crow hops about, searching for a stray morsel somewhere on the roof. The sun glints off it as it moves, making it black at one angle, blue at another. Jean has no responsibility to feed it, but still feels a little bad he can't.

Although he does have a lot of bread. He can spare some crumbs.

He puts out his cigarette. "Stay there. I might have something for you inside," he says to the crow.

It caws in reply.

He tears a piece from a loaf and returns to the balcony, tossing small chunks at the bird. It eagerly eats them.

"I've never had a bird keep me company here before," he says out loud. "Do you live in Badon?"

The bird, having finished its little meal, begins to preen its feathers.

"With all the flying you do, I wonder if I've seen you before but don't know it. Maybe you've seen me and knew I had bread." He smiles at that; the bird continues to groom itself, indifferent. "Or maybe you've seen my friend," Jean continues, smile faltering. "You remind me of him some. He's not in Badon currently, but you have wings. You could go see him." He wraps the blanket tighter around him. "I suppose I could, too – because of the drink he sent, I'm certain he's in Furawau; clever of him to do that since he couldn't say where he was – but I wouldn't risk it. Last time we were there, he almost died because of me." His voice sinks. "It numbed me, then, to think I could have lost him so suddenly, without closure. Before he left for this trip, we had a distant goodbye, as if we weren't close. And... despite my trust in him, I guess I'm kind of worried that something else could happen to him, except I won't even be there. All I'll have is that last awkward-" He blinks in realization. "I'm talking to a bird, and I'm not even drunk."

The crow's caws almost sound like laughter. Then it takes off.

Jean watches it shrink as it flies away. He lights another cigarette, feeling a pang as familiar as an old friend. 

* * *

After a month and a half, he gets another package. This time, it's many kinds of herbal tea, and the note says: 

 _These are for her. If she'll let you, you can have some._  

Lotta gasps in delight at the gift and at hearing from Nino. She bakes some honey bread to pair with the tea, and shares some of both with Jean. She saves a portion, not having to say for who. 

* * *

Jean can't find his tie.

He's searched his room, Lotta's, the living room, the laundry room. It's nowhere to be found, and he has to be at work in twenty minutes. All of the other ones were just washed and still drying, but he was certain there had been an extra in his wardrobe. Although it's quite likely he has less ties than he thought. He can't ask Lotta to help look, as she's already in school, but he texts her asking if she knows how many ties he has, to at least solve that mystery.

 _I'll go buy one_ , he decides. He'd be a bit late to work, but at least in uniform.

He's buttoning his jacket when the doorbell buzzes. _Bad timing for them_ , he thinks. It's too early for it to be the mailman, so it'll probably a tenant, but they'll have to wait for him to return for him to address the issue.

The person that looks at him on the screen is not a tenant.

Jean rings him in so quickly he forgets to exhale, only doing so when he lets go of the name he's hoarded for so long. "Nino?!"

"I wrapped up in two months. Am I good or what?"

His smile, his voice. They were ingrained in Jean's head, but how much better they were than he remembered. Like a mug of coffee on a cold morning.

Jean tightly crosses his arms, as if in doing so, his accelerating heart won't fall out of his rib cage. "The best," he says, returning the smile.

Nino picks at something on his shirt. "Can you believe traveling without you there turns out to be very boring?" he casually says. Once Jean would have dismissed it as a playful comment. But the fact that Nino, hair tousled from a long flight, eyes showing their age, suitcases behind him, chose to come _here_ first upon arrival tells Jean all that which has gone unsaid. The last piece of the puzzle of their lives clicks into place.

Jean uncrosses his arms and takes Nino's hand in his. "Actually," he says, feeling warm everywhere as his fingers interlace Nino's, "I can."

One of them – he isn't sure who; it might have been both of them, desperate as they are – closes the distance, and Jean has to crane his head slightly upward to meet Nino's lips.

No pastry has ever been as sweet.

His free hand cradles the back of Nino's head, and Nino's is on the small of his back, each pressing into the other, the physical contact electrifying and yet not enough. But the way they fit into and follow each other is too perfect, they had to have been made for this. Only to breathe in do they come apart, and still remain close, Nino resting his forehead against Jean's.

 _There are truths in the world_ , Jean thinks. _What goes up must come down. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. Heat flows from hot to cold_. "You and I," he says, softly, his hand going from the back of Nino's head to curling on his cheek.

Nino wraps his own hand around it. "You and I what?" The bass in his voice vibrates against Jean's chest.

"Belong nowhere else."

"Jean Otus," Nino says, smile wide as he smooths Jean's collar, "are you a sap?"

His collar. He untangles himself from Nino, grabbing his briefcase from the sofa. "I'm late for work." An idea occurs to him. "Do you have your tie on you, from our uniform?"

"I've got it packed somewhere."

"I need to borrow it. I can't find mine."

Turns out it's buried deep in the second suitcase. There went five more minutes.

Jean throws it on and messily ties it. "You can stay here, if you want. I can tell you're tired."

"Yeah, I'm probably going to pass out on the sofa."

Jean laughs quietly. He helps Nino bring his suitcases inside, and Nino lays down on the sofa, groaning.

"Lotta will be back before me," Jean says, "so you d-"

Nino's asleep.

Jean looks for a blanket and drapes it on him, wishing he could stay.

He's quite late for work, but his reprimand is just a mild 'be early next time' from Owl.

Restlessly, he counts down the hours he has left at work, although the reason for doing so has changed.

Shift over, he reenters his home quietly, not knowing if Nino is still asleep. He isn't, but the blanket covers his lap. He gives Jean a lazy wave, his hair even more mussed than in the morning. 

"Jean!" Lotta says from the kitchen. "Why did you text me asking how many ties you own, but not that Nino was back, and right here?!"

Oh. "Sorry," he says. He'd even forgotten to check her reply. He does so now. _Huh_.  _I_ _do_ _have less ties than I thought._

"If I didn't cook for you, I think you'd forget to eat," she chides.

"Nino would cook for me," he says, sitting down next to Nino, smoothing his hair.

The rumble of Nino's laugh is so pleasant.

"Anyway, the food's almost done," Lotta says.

"She wouldn't let me help," Nino tells Jean.

"Because you're our guest!" She sighs. "It's not a feast like I wanted because I didn't have time to prepare..."

"Don't worry about it. I'm happy to eat anything you make, Lotta." Nino turns to Jean. "Time to open the drink I sent you?"

He smiles. "I would say so."

Their dinner is simple, and yet it's one of the best meals Jean's ever had.

As always, Nino tries to get him to drink more than he can handle, but Jean is careful. He wants to stay sober today.


	7. Chapter 7

Lotta puts the last and lightest of the boxes down. "You don't have many things at all, Nino."

"I never cared much for personalizing where I live. Nor did I have the time."

"At least it made moving easier," Jean says, unrolling his sleeves.

"I'll go make some lemonade and sandwiches," Lotta says, "and you two can unpack. I don't know how you're thinking of organizing everything in Jean's room."

"I don't really, either," Nino mumbles, but she's gone.

Jean chuckles. "We'll figure it out. We should start with clothes. That's just splitting the wardrobe."

What isn't folded into drawers gets hung up in what they designate as Nino's half. _So much black clothing_ , Jean thinks, not for the first time. Seeing all of the turtlenecks at once is endearing and entertaining.

The photographs Nino brought are put up on the hallway with the others the Otus siblings already had; his camera equipment goes to the former guest room, now emptied for use as a darkroom they'll have to start on soon, as Nino's been taking pictures all day.

Everything finds its place. It's like Nino has always lived here.

 _In a way_ , Jean thinks, reminiscing over the pictures on the wall, _he has_.

That night is spent watching movies, one chosen by each of them, bundled on the couch. Lotta falls asleep before the last one is over. Nino scoops her up, with more difficulty than he's willing to admit, and Jean tucks her in.

For a while, the two lay together on the bed – _their_ bed, now – doing nothing more than leaning on each other, looking for shapes on the bumpy texture of the ceiling, reveling in the warmth of the new home life this marks.

"Nino," Jean says suddenly, casting his eyes up at him, "how long have you loved me?"

Nino takes in a long breath. "Do I have to answer that?"

"You promised me that anything I wanted to know, you'd answer. Don't tell me you forgot that."

"I didn't. It's just embarrassing to say out loud..." He hums, thinking. "I loved you as a subject does his prince first, because that's what you were to me. I suppose it was more awe and respect than love. Then, when I got to know you, that changed to the protective, caring love for a friend. That's how it was for a long time. I occasionally had to remind myself of who you were, what my duty was. That we weren't on the same level, no matter what I thought. Or felt. I don't think there was an exact time I realized what it was I felt for you. The same way it's hard to pinpoint when a drizzle becomes rain, it was romantic love, one day."

Jean presses a smiling kiss to his jaw. "And you called me the sap." 

"We both are."

Neither of them want to get up to turn off the lamp, so they decide to sleep as is. Nino is out immediately, the gentle rising and falling of his chest lulling Jean halfway to slumber.

Who knows what the days hereafter will be. But with Nino beside him, tomorrow is worth looking forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i LOVE these two they're so INTO EACH OTHER
> 
> the title of this fic came from the actual goddamn ost song '[our place](http://www.lyrical-nonsense.com/lyrics/one-iii-notes/our-place/)'


End file.
